


In Which Crowley Buys Aziraphale a Smartphone

by vivific (V_fics)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Humor, M/M, Social Media, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-21 05:54:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19996933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/V_fics/pseuds/vivific
Summary: Aziraphale discovers the magic of the Internet, including online libraries, music streaming, and social media—as well some strange uses of emoji.





	In Which Crowley Buys Aziraphale a Smartphone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cheryllium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheryllium/gifts).
  * A translation of [Crowley给Aziraphale买了一部智能手机 (In Which Crowley Buys Aziraphale a Smartphone)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19163104) by [Cheryllium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheryllium/pseuds/Cheryllium). 



> My first finished translation! It only took me like three weeks because my brain broke. Thank you so much to Cheryllium for giving me permission to translate! 
> 
> I'd love to translate more (the Chinese Good Omens fandom is delightfully active) but alas, I have the attention span of something with a very short attention span.
> 
> [There are no author's notes to translate.]

Crowley had bought Aziraphale a smartphone.

It was small, white, and rectangular, with a protective case decorated with a pair of feathered wings, which Crowley had carefully chosen for the angel.

Aziraphale had said that he didn't want a smartphone. He already had a landline, and he couldn’t bear losing such an expensive gift, but Crowley insisted it'd be convenient, and they could even video call each other with it.

"Is it made of platinum?" the angel ran his fingers over the edge of the phone's silver shell, unable to hide the surprised look on his face.

"Evidently not..." said Crowley weakly.

Nevertheless, Aziraphale accepted the gift, and over the next three months, Crowley spent eight hours a day teaching the angel (although six of those hours were dedicated to drinking, singing, or dancing to Stephen Sondheim), until Aziraphale finally grasped how to use the device. He also learnt how to access the Internet, and Crowley even signed him up for some social networking sites, even though Aziraphale couldn’t gauge the purpose of the websites from their names alone.

"What is 'Facebook'? Does it contain a repository of different faces?"

"Something like that." Crowley downed the last drop of Châteauneuf-du-Pape from his glass, then gave a satisfied belch.

"Oh. Well that sounds rather strange." Aziraphale pouted and tapped on another app instead.

Aziraphale quickly discovered the fascinating world of the Internet. With it, he could use online libraries to search for ancient historic books, read whatever content he pleased on public transportation, and listen at any time to Schubert and Beethoven without the need for a heavy gramophone. Plus, every song had hundreds of variants and covers, including Crowley's old friend Claude Debussy's original works. It sounded just like it had, many years ago, when Crowley and he had a drink together, listening to Debussy play. The composer had mocked Aziraphale's French, and although he had said it while drunk, Aziraphale remained cross with him for half a month.

"What a magical little box!" Aziraphale praised, slipping it into his coat's inner pocket, where the phone rested against his chest. He was still afraid of losing it.

It had been two weeks since Crowley last posted to Instagram. Beneath the familiar avatar of ginger hair and sunglasses was a picture of a verdant houseplant.

"They grow better when I shout at them #TipsForPlants" was written on a single line under the picture.

Someone else had already responded, "Go plant!" with a crying emoji.

"Poor, poor boy," Aziraphale wrote. He paused, then reached over with his left thumb to give Crowley a 'like'. He didn't presently understand the meaning of the action, but he always felt happy seeing a red heart of love.

Even though Aziraphale didn't want to sell any books, he still discreetly added some of his customers as friends. “It’s trying to recommend what you like,” he said, “Guessing your interests must be something Crowley invented.”

Although his customers were as old and antiquated as he, they all each had very different lives. Those customers even communicated with him through private messages, asking him when his next opening hours would be. Most notable was a gentleman who visited the bookshop every day, and who especially seemed to enjoy talking with Aziraphale. While they were having an afternoon tea in the British Museum’s coffee shop, Aziraphale told Crowley all about his new internet friends.

Provided they weren’t having a drink together at the time, Crowley always received a text message from Aziraphale at eleven PM. He had set Aziraphale’s text tone to a “celestial harmony” the angel always fancied, because it wasn’t like he had any other angels to talk to… but his barber always said the music sounded like an old scrap car hitting the brakes before crashing into an electrical pole. To this, he said nothing.

Aziraphale always asked very strange questions, such as: “What does this # sign mean?”, “How do you input those little yellow and skin-toned faces and hand gestures?”, and “If someone commits a grievous spelling or grammatical error, should I correct them?” To which Crowley would normally let out an audible sigh, mute the late-night cartoons he was watching, and unlock his phone to respond.

Now and then, there were even stranger questions: “If someone sends me a 🍆, how should I respond?”

The demon stared at the sentence for a few seconds, then angrily slammed his iPhone onto the desk.

“You’re not allowed to break,” the demon glared at the screen face up on the table.

The iPhone let out the smallest of cries; the silicone atoms making up its screen complied. They wailed, and the cracks in the screen vanished without a trace.

At closing time, Aziraphale was surprised to see that the gentleman who visited the shop every day hadn’t shown up that day.

“I must have upset him with my Instagram post about the gramophone collection,” Aziraphale murmured as he locked the door. “Being an antique bookseller is rather difficult, the customers are always so picky.”

“Of course.” Crowley used a glass of wine to rinse his fangs clean of the ketchup he’d used to scare off the bookshop’s regular, then downed the rest of the cup.

**Author's Note:**

> [There are no author's notes to translate.]


End file.
